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Adam Moorad on Adam Moorad.

September 15, 2011 \pm\30 2:00 pm

A review of Adam Moorad’s Pangur Ban Party e-Book: The Nurse and The Patient
by Adam Moorad

i remember this story. no. it’s not faulknerian. far from it. but it’s true. it’s about a friend and his ex-girlfriend. they lived together outside sacramento. one summer i made arrangements to go visit them and the week before my trip they broke up. when i heard what happened i decided that i didn’t want to come. but my friend insisted that i still make the trip. i suppose he felt guilty that i had already bought plane tickets or something. and maybe, to some extent, he needed a friend. i landed on a saturday night. he picked me up from the airport and we went to some shitty dive in davis, california. jager shots. country music. all that. and it sucked. and it went on all night. and i slept the whole next day. and this went on for 3 or 4 days/nights. and the whole time my friend was moping around, talking about the break-up, somehow contradicting himself with every statement. one minute, it would be a tirade about how evil his ex was, and a minute later he would be recounting freaky scenes from their bygone sex life. i mean, from what i could tell, it seemed obvious that she was already over him and he was holding out for hope. from the few times i had met her, i could tell she was pretty stuck up. i mean, in my unbiased opinion, she was. sorry. so nothing about the situation seemed surprising. apparently, her step-dad was a big deal in some californian boondock and my friend was just some cokey bartender. i remember thinking it all seemed vaguely freudian and it was fucking depressing as shit: the two of us nursing hangovers day after day in the shitty condo outside sacramento that he and his ex used to share, chain-smoking, rehashing bullshit for the sake of what? thankfully, my friend had to work two days during my visit so i decided to take the amtrak into san francisco. i checked into a first floor room at the grant hotel on bush street in nob hill. i had never been to san francisco before so i tried to walk the entire city. it was a mistake. so many goddamn hills. my feet were killing me. i did all the touristy bullshit by myself but i didn’t give a fuck really. at the end of the day i bought some tallboys and went back to my hotel. i had a few adderalls i had been saving for a special occasion, so i took some, started on the tallboys and began writing about my friend’s lousy situation. i used a red ink pen and a moleskin that had been inadvertently washed in the laundry at some point before then. i think i still have that moleskin somewhere. i think i will try to find it later. i also think it was the first time i was ever able to write extensively in a moleskin which, at the time, felt cool but now feels douchey. i suppose it was the adderall, which too is a douchey thing to say. sorry – this has nothing to do with the story. so this is a true story of sorts but not a work of nonfiction. i guess i tried to put myself in my friend’s shitty situation as i tried to write about the ugly beautiful melancholy he was experiencing which, i think, inevitably, we all experience to some extent at some point. so i typed the thing and sent it to DJ.

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